As an álvur, he had the ability to cloak himself from human eyes by bending the space around himself, creating an invisible force field. This spectral cloak allowed light waves to pass through him, instead of the light being absorbed or reflected.
He was invisible as he walked through the barrier between gateway and Terra, not out of fear of being seen, but because he wanted to stay anonymous. He didn't want anyone to know about his presence. Humans weren't the only inhabitants on Earth. Although there were a few species that could penetrate his spectral cloak and see him, Urøk was more worried about unwanted attention from the humans. He wasn't scared of them. Even with their advancements, they posed no threat to him. But news of his arrival could reach the wrong ears and he might just have another champion of the Light on his tail, apart from a Tracker. There were also Dark Creatures who wouldn't appreciate his presence. Anonymity was therefore best.
He opened the saddle bag he had liberated from the pegáonadann and hid it under the roots of the tree, being careful not to expose the precious cargo to the sunlight. The beiier would crawl out when the sun set and would keep watch at the tree. Urøk needed to know how close the Tracker was on his tail. The beiier would make its own way to him, and it would do it much faster than any foe, giving him ample warning. With a psychic bond between them, it didn't matter which direction he went or how far away he was. The beiier would find him and quickly.
Urøk didn't give the beiier another thought and turned his attention to the humans. He wanted to see what kind of mischief he could get up to around the herds of two-legged cattle whilst invisible to them. Urøk didn't see them as anything more than a source of sustenance and perhaps a bit of humorous distraction. He saw them as they scurried on man-made pathways that crisscrossed through the park. Most were in a rush, not even noticing the world around them. They scuttled like insects on some unfathomable errand. A few seemed to be jogging through the park at a leisurely pace. Nothing was chasing them, their pace was far too relaxed, and Urøk couldn't understand the point of it. These runners were dressed differently and Urøk supposed they might be couriers making their way from point A to B delivering documents. They were new to him and hadn't been around four hundred years ago.
Then there were a handful who seemed to take lunch in the green space between the buildings. They ate in peace, apparently enjoying what little scenery there was. There were singles, couples, and even groups of people. One thing that was quite noticeable, was the different styles of clothing. Four hundred years ago, every living human seemed to wear one of only three different types of clothing, all in drab but functional colors and fabrics. This new century displayed a lot more color and a lot more skin.
Urøk didn't approve.
The colors were an affront to his eyes.
The exposed skin was a temptation to rip, tear, sever, and feast.
His senses took a few moments to acclimatize. There were a lot of different sounds and smells competing amongst each other with which he was unfamiliar. This wasn't what Urøk honed in on. Instead, he sensed that this city was a hot pot for desperation, loneliness, and depression. Despite their clothing, the colors of their city seemed muted. So did the sounds of birds and insects. There were very few around. The living world seemed to have been replaced by this poor human imitation of a habitat. Even the air seemed stale and lifeless.
Urøk bent on one knee and felt the grass, dug his nails into the soil beneath and confirmed his suspicions. This was a place best suited to the lost and beaten. Even the earth seemed lifeless. As if it had been tilled and cultivated until the soil was left almost barren and unable to sustain anything more than the most basic of plants.
Urøk couldn't help but wonder where these human insects got their food. Surely not from the earth anywhere near this place.
There were many of them. He could sense them. Not thousands in this one space as four centuries ago, but rather millions.
It boggled the mind. How was it possible that they had been able to multiply so successfully? They were essentially such a soft species. And how could a city as artificial as this sustain a large population?
Urøk was certain that these questions would be answered in time, so he stowed his curiosity and made his way out of the green area in search of a human marked for greatness.
CHAPTER 7
At 63 and nearing retirement, Detective Dan Almeida was still as sharp as a whip. He always had a knack of making Eleanor feel better and in some ways, he was her go-to father figure. When near Dan, she wasn't the least bit intimidated by the big bad city. She wasn't afraid. Not even of the nightmares. They didn't occupy space in her thoughts, and that was a true indication of the impact Dan Almeida had on her. She wished she could clone him, shrink him, put him in her pocket, and carry him everywhere with her.
Life would be so simple then.
He was an all-around great person. Upbeat, despite his occupation, caring, and possessed of a super dry sense of humor. But, as far as Eleanor could tell, he had one major flaw - according to him, the best coffee in the world was to be found at 65 6th Ave, Brooklyn. More specifically on the second floor in the break room of the 78th Precinct. He loved the break room coffee. Dan refused to meet anywhere else for coffee but there.
It made meeting a little more inconvenient as Eleanor had to stop by the duty sergeant first to announce her arrival. Luckily, she was well known and after exchanging a few pleasantries, she was buzzed in and allowed to go through and meet up with Dan.
Three years later and she was still recognized and greeted by most working at the precinct. There were still respectful nods and the occasional “Hi, how you doin'?”. A few even stopped to shoot the breeze for a few seconds. Killing one of the most notorious serial killers of the 21st Century gave you something of an honorary cop status. And cops had long memories.
Especially Dan Almeida. He still remembered details from cases twenty years ago. He was also notoriously early. There was still ten minutes to go before their agreed-upon meeting time and Dan was already sitting in the break room with a cup of coffee at a small table in the furthest corner annexed.
“Hello, Didion,” he said in his trademarked staccato burst of syllables.
Eleanor didn’t know if it was a side effect of being a javaphile, or whether he had always talked so fast. Didion was his nickname for her, referring to Joan Didion, the famous journalist from the 60s. Dan insisted that Eleanor's straightforward, no-nonsense, say-it-like-it-is style of writing reminded him of Didion's judgmental, but superbly written articles. Neither of them held back and Dan respected that.
Dan was peering over the rim of his cup with his perpetual trademarked squint. There was no reason for the squint and Eleanor suspected it was to make him look less intelligent than he was. That and the fast talking created the impression of a man that was out of his depth, unable to deal with his circumstances, and who was panicking as he slowly got dragged under by the quicksand.
“Hello Mister Coffee,” she countered, enjoying the momentary upwards lilt of his left lip. “Still immune to the stuff, I see,” she said, looking at the steady hand that lifted the dark broth to his lips.
Dan liked his coffee black and strong. It was a wonder that he still had white teeth after all the years of caffeine abuse. Eleanor was sure his body had been subjected to more tannins than most small towns.
As was their custom, Dan stood up and the pair shared a brief but heartfelt hug. It was a testament to their relationship. Dan Almeida was known to most as a grumpy old bear with a sore tooth.
“You well?” he inquired.
Eleanor nodded as she sat down opposite the big man. Dan had been a linebacker in his younger days and he still sported the broad shoulders. Although his stomach slightly hung over his belt and his legs seemed a little more buckled than they were ten years ago, Dan was still in good shape for a man his age. And he still had big arms, as if he were an active construction worker, rather than a man riding a desk for most of the day.
The years of football had taken a toll on his joints.
“As long as they get me to the coffee machine, they're fine. How are your folks?”
Dan had met them a few times and they seemed to hit it off. They shared the same likes in music, food, and theater. They shared a lot of laughs when they got together, but that had changed when Dan's wife passed away from an unexpected embolism. A few months later, Eleanor's folks had moved to Florida and since then, they contacted each other only a few times a year over birthdays and Christmas.
“All good. Dad's taken up golf.”
Dan stifled a laugh and nearly spilled some coffee at the news.
“So that's what retirement does to you?”
“It gets him out of the house and out of mom's hair,” Eleanor shrugged, with a smile. “You're going to need a hobby, too.”
Dan scoffed at the thought. It sounded like a walrus burping. “I'm hoping to OD on the coffee here before it's time to go. I honestly don't know what I'll do. It won't be golf, that I can tell you.” He took a sip from his mug and eyed her over the rim, one eyebrow raised. “Coffee?”
She was loath to have a cup. This particular blend of PD Pure was way too strong for her.
“It's not as strong as it used to be,” Dan said, sensing her hesitancy. “Even the coffee's woke now,” he smiled mischievously.
Eleanor could only groan inwards. Dan's generation was often so opinionated, blunt, and had such a dry sense of humor that younger people were forever incensed by their remarks. She said as much.
“One of these days you're going to get into trouble with the PC Police.”
Dan kept smiling and shrugged. “As if I care what they think. Besides I don't have Twitter and Facebook and all the other brainwashing electronic social tools. I think I'm safe.” He got up and walked to the coffee station across the room. A few seconds later, he returned with a steaming mug that contained milk and sugar.
Eleanor winced after the first sip. Dan had lied. It was still the same old coffee that was as thick as molasses and bitter as hell. The sugar and milk didn't help much. Her stomach wanted to rebel against the onslaught. It tasted and felt like acid going down. She downed the cup just to get it over with.
“Another?” Dan smiled. He was enjoying the show.
“No thanks.” Eleanor produced a bottle of still water from her handbag. “I'm not a masochist,” she added.
“Each to his own,” he said, winking.
The coffee in his cup was as thick as tar and dark as sin. Eleanor couldn't help but suppress a shudder. She remembered the many nights they had spent together working on the Ice Cream Killer Case. Those had been dark days and even darker nights, filled with apprehension, fear, anger, loathing. But there had also been good days. New friendships were formed through adversity with deep bonds forged from late nights and gallons of terrible coffee that guaranteed to keep you going.
“Chesson phoned again,” Dan was referring to the editor-in-chief of Eleanor's old newspaper.
“Why does he keep phoning you?” Eleanor asked, the irritation showing on her face.
“'Cause you won't take his calls, and, as a civil servant, I am forced to answer all of mine.”
Eleanor didn't answer.
“You know you still have a job if you want it,” Dan pressed. “In fact, all the papers here will jump at the opportunity to have you on the payroll. They'd be stupid not to take you.” It always sounded as if Dan spoke without any periods.
“You know I can't.”
“Dreams?”
“Don't sugarcoat it, Dan,” she said, almost angry. “You know what they are.”
Dan nodded. “And the Glitch?”
Eleanor didn’t want to be reminded of her brain’s short-circuit. Ever since falling off a horse when she was a small child, she had seen strange things from the corner of her eye. Most often, they were only flitting shadows, but there were times when she saw worse things than shadows. She called it the Glitch, and it wasn’t limited to sight either. Sometimes she smelled and heard strange things too.
“It comes and goes,” she shrugged.
In Havensford, the Glitch was less prone to interfere with her life. In the city though, it was a different story all together. She ascribed it to the stresses of a faster-paced life. The Glitch was one of the reasons she finally left New York.
“Happy with your work?” Dan changed tack. “Mister Stephen Delaigne the great mystery novelist still too lazy to think for himself?”
Eleanor nodded and even managed a smile. “You know I like the work. It gives me an excuse to bother you.” It was her time to wink.
This time, Dan gave a full smile and it transformed his craggy, lined face into that of a kindly grandfather.
“Okay,” he said, hands in the air. “Tell me what crazy scenario Delaigne has planned? For the hero or villain?”
“For the villain,” Eleanor answered, leaning forward.
“Goody,” Dan looked like a kid who had been locked inside a candy store after dark.
Neither Eleanor, nor best-selling author Stephen Delaigne could come up with a solution to a perplexing problem the antagonist was facing and had to overcome in a very short amount of time. Eleanor valued the insights that Dan could offer, especially since he had over forty years of experience in the police force. Not only did Dan have all that priceless knowledge, but he also had the uncanny ability to place himself inside the head of a criminal mastermind.
They parried back and forth for a good thirty minutes until reliable Dan Almeida came up with a brilliantly original solution. Stephen Delaigne would be selling another few hundred thousand novels.
Eleanor missed the old man, and promised that she wouldn't let weeks pass before they saw each other again. It was a promise she intended to keep. Dan was like a father to her, and since his daughter was on the other side of the continent, she hoped he thought of her as a surrogate daughter.
They hugged again as they said their goodbyes and Eleanor felt recharged as she walked out the front door and down the well-worn stone steps to the sidewalk on 6th Avenue, heading south towards Prospect Park. Eleanor noticed the brightness of the sun and the singing birds. Today was a good day.
She checked her watch and smiled contently. She had more than an hour to make her way to Parkside Avenue Station. It would take a forty-five minute walk to get to her platform and meet Charlene, Rosewater's childhood friend. She loved to walk and be out in nature, so it only made sense to walk the length of the Park, rather than sit in a corner cafe and then grabbing a cab.
Eleanor's seventeen-year-old neighbor had a pre-season cheerleader practice, and as the team captain she had to attend. Since Eleanor had to come to the city to meet Dan anyway, she offered to meet Charlene and accompany her to Havensford.
With time to spare, Eleanor considered sitting in the Park for a few minutes. She could walk past the Boathouse and Audubon Center and find a bench next to the water. Or she could walk a little further until she had a view of Duck Island. Either way, it was going to be a great day.
CHAPTER 8
He was only a few minutes into his discovery of this new world and Urøk hated it. It got worse after he consumed Nic, the teenage basketball playing putz. With his newfound knowledge, this new world with its sights and advancements seemed like a wonder.
At first, he appreciated the way that man had substituted nature with buildings and roads and machines. The technological advancements of mankind were a marvel. He would never have guessed that a species so soft and fundamentally flawed, would ever be able to amount to this. He grudgingly had to give them credit for their achievements. The wonders were endless.
Urøk loved the fact that they seemed to have turned their backs on nature. They were their own gods and had created their own world of concrete and steel and circuits. Their world had been placed on top of the old one, replacing it, forgetting about it. Yes, there were some green swathes scat
tered throughout the warren of humanity, but they were few and far between. And they seemed beaten. As if the plants and few remaining animals and insects had capitulated to a relentless enemy that had driven them into hiding. The human machine pressed on, ever outwards and upwards. Regardless of and oblivious to their surroundings. Bullying it into submission.
To Urøk, it was a thing of beauty.
They were the architects of their own doom.
And humans had become fat. Not only in their waistlines, but also in their brains. They seemed so convinced of their superiority that they even shunned one another. Each one thought he was more important than the other. But it wasn't just unfounded arrogance. It went beyond that. As if humans thought they were not only the superior species on the planet, but also superior to each other. And if another dared disagree with them, they were offended to such a point of chagrin that they were willing to kill one another. And yet, they were also scared of offending one another to the point where they were afraid of speaking the truth. They were a strange and complicated species.
They were ready to be culled.
This excited Urøk at first. But then he started with his experiments.
He would walk a crowded street (always in search of a human with a Gift), and purposefully bump people into one another. Instead of being met with consternation and surprise, the humans turned on each other. It was immediately someone else's fault, which was perfect, but sometimes they clear ignored the other person. This infuriated Urøk. He wanted victims that showed rage and indignation. Not emotionless sheep that didn't even look up when they were pushed.
Like nature, it seemed that some of the humans had been beaten as well. They seemed like mindless drones that merely went through the basics to keep themselves alive. But what kind of life could that be, Urøk wondered. There was no fire in their eyes. What was the point of living then?
Stirring Embers: An urban fantasy action adventure (The Light and the Void Book 1) Page 5